


Mutually Assured Resurrection

by waywardelle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Barebacking, Bunker Fic, Dirty Talk, M/M, Rimming, Season/Series 11, mutual obsessive love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 04:07:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5570566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardelle/pseuds/waywardelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Dean gets Sam back from the Cage a second time, Sam wants all of Dean's love back. He wants every crazy, obsessive, filthy inch of Dean's love. And more than that, he wants to show Dean that he is just as crazy, just as obsessive, and just as filthy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mutually Assured Resurrection

**Author's Note:**

> This was a challenge for myself to see if I could write 5k words of porn. I succeeded! This is raunchy, y'all. I called it filthy, and the bff called it "hot." I suppose you can be the judge of that. 
> 
> Unbetaed, so any mistakes are thoroughly my own.  
> x-posted at pathossam.tumblr.com

Their crystal glasses slam against the library table in sync, and Sam screws up his face, fighting the burn down his throat. This is the fifth shot of the good shit they’ve taken together, but hell, after this, they fuckin’ deserve it.

Sam had been trapped in Lucifer’s cage for what Dean swore was only three days, but to Sam felt like months. It’s only been an hour since Dean dragged Sam back home, exhausted, filthy and bloody, and they haven’t even showered. They’d shared a look, going straight for the booze, dropping their duffels in the war room and settling their asses into their respective chairs. Dean had thumped a crystal decanter of aged scotch between them, and they’ve been pounding it back since, not a lot of words between them, but the okay kind of silence. The kind filled with a whole lot of relief. 

Dean won’t stop looking at him from across the table, the lamplight casting shadows across his older brother’s dirty, laugh-lined face. He can see the grey in Dean’s beard, longer than it’s been since their fallout over Gadreel, and the silver threaded in his temples that Sam is privately enamored with, wants to touch and run his fingers through so badly, but they don’t, he doesn’t-- not anymore, and he won’t. 

“Didn’t,” Sam starts, finally breaking the heavy silence with heavier words, “didn’t think I was getting out of there again.”

Dean leans back in his seat, hands crossed over his stomach. He’s still staring at his brother, hasn’t tried to hide it once since they got back, and every time Sam catches his eye he wants to flush, look away, but the truth is he’s been starving for Dean, starving to look at him, so hungry to take in everything, convinced he’d never see his brother’s face again. 

He’d been agonized, truly tortured in a way that Lucifer could never hope to accomplish over not spending enough time just looking at Dean, memorizing the way his eyes look when he’s tired, the way his smile curls just for Sam, how his hands move when he’s making them dinner. Those memories are the only thing he’d taken with him to the Cage, and Sam hadn’t made enough of them to last him an eternity. But he knows, deep down, that it will never feel like enough. Could never, ever be enough.

“No faith,” Dean answers finally, smiling a little ironically, a little bitterly. “The second Crowley told me, Sam, I-- nothing could’ve stopped me. Nothing.”

Sam feels like he should know that by now, and he does, mostly. The lengths they’ve always gone to save each other, with Sam starting the vicious cycle ten years ago with that faith healer, sorry that other people had to die for Dean to live, but sorry in a futile way, in a way that refused to regret it. And on and on it went; their enemies so perceptive about it, so taunting and right, that it didn’t matter who, didn’t matter if they were friends, if they stood in the way of the other’s life, they were expendable in the end. 

The scotch is settling in Sam’s stomach in a weird way, a way that isn’t entirely what he’s after. It’s soothing him, yeah, but it’s turning everything up, too, like someone’s got the thermostat to Sam’s pulse and they keep ratcheting it higher, hotter. 

His dick has been heavy in his jeans since taking the second shot, watching Dean watch him as his big brother licked the amber liquid off his lips after, wanting every taste. Sam couldn’t help but think back to his brother sucking his cock like that, drawing away from it, letting it rest on his lips, getting his swollen mouth soaking wet with spit and precome and whatever else Sam had carved out of his brother’s throat, licking out at it, before diving back in, tears tracking down his face from ignoring his gag reflex.

God, no one has ever sucked him off like Dean. 

Sam shifts, pulling his pant legs down from where they’re bunched around his balls, and he looks down as he does it, flushing hot at the way his cock is sticking to his thigh, so fucking huge and obscene. Sam presses the heel of his hand against it under the table and can’t help the way his eyes flutter. 

Dean leans forward slowly, settling his elbows on the table, eyes narrowed, glittering in the low light. “What’cha got down there, little brother?”

Sam bites his lip, taking his hand away from his cock, but he can’t help the roll of his hips, rubbing his dick against the rough denim of his jeans. He doesn’t answer; instead, he grabs for the scotch and pours them both another couple fingers. Dean licks his lips, catching his tongue at the corner of his mouth, silent, just looking. Sam is sure Dean can hear the way his heart is beating, see his pulse jackhammering at the soft, vulnerable points in his throat. 

He’s never stopped wanting Dean, even when he hates his brother, wants to kill him, never wants to see him again. He doesn’t know if it’s because his obsession began when he was a horny, fucked up kid that felt like everything was the end of the world or the beginning, but he’s never stopped wanting his brother like a hormonal, sex-driven teenager, and when they fuck, it’s tender and it’s love, but it’s wild, too. It’s earth-ending, it’s a race, it’s a challenge. It’s everything, it’s absolutely everything. 

Dean clinks his glass against Sam’s and another drink goes down, and it puts him that much closer to the edge of fuck it, the edge of the self-control Sam prides himself on. 

There was a reason they stopped the sex. In Sam’s mind, it was making their already poor-decision making skills even worse. If on a normal day Sam can’t see past his brother, without any sex involved, it’s hard for him to fathom ever wanting to be outside of Dean’s wingspan when they’re close like that, when Dean’s got Sam’s wrists pinned to his back with one hand and he’s drilling him so hard Sam doesn’t even have to rub his cock against the sheets because the force of Dean’s thrusts does that for him. 

When the headboard is carving a hole into the wall, and they’re so sweaty Dean’s hand keeps slipping against the sheets where he’s got himself braced, and his voice is so deep and rough when he whispers into Sam’s hair, into his ear, biting at his neck with teeth that mean to draw blood, “this fucked out ass is mine, Sammy, mine, do you hear me, hear the way you’re moaning, you know it, don’t you, you love it, I know you do, because I love it, love you, can’t live without you, Sam, Sammy, won’t do it, can’t, fuck, squeeze my cock, squeeze it with that slutty, fucked-open hole, go on,” and Sam is dying, wailing against the pillow, hands full with pins and needles from the blood not being able to reach his fingers. He tells Dean he does, he loves it, loves him, needs him, can’t get enough, never enough, and he uses every last bit of strength he has to fuck back on Dean’s cock, clenching the loosened muscles of his asshole to wrench every bit of pleasure he can out of Dean. 

So. Yeah, after Dean went too far because of this obsession, this mutual obsession that carves out everything else, reason and sanity and boundaries but never respect, shouldn’t ever carve out respect but did, Sam knew they needed to take a step back-- or he needed too, at least. But then he had watched his brother get stabbed in the chest, felt his last breath puff out in a laugh against Sam’s face, and his world had gone black again. He learned something about himself, too, Dean always teaching him even when he’s not around: how far he would go, how dark, and how much he didn’t care anymore. He’d thought Ruby and the demon blood was dark, but even then his goal, his intentions were mainly good-- to save the person the demon was riding, to avenge Dean, to save the world. 

He’d had no such motivations this last time, the only thought, the only thing he cared about was getting his brother back to him. So even though Dean had crossed a line, stepped too far, Sam understood now how easy it was to make that choice, how crazy and desperate it could make you in the face of losing the other half of your soul when you least expect it.

“Never thought we’d be sitting here again,” Sam murmurs, sucking in air through his teeth at the burn of alcohol in his throat that’s finally starting to lessen. “Never thought I’d see you again, Dean.”

Dean’s been consistent in staring at him, like he’s staring into him, making sure every part inside and out is back where it should be. Dean leans forward farther, bracing his hands and forearms on the table. He’s so close, Sam can smell the alcohol on his breath.

“Sam,” Dean sighs, looking up at him through his sooty lashes, “Sammy. If you don’t know by now there ain’t nothin’ in this world or any other that’s gonna take you away from me, then I don’t know what to tell you.”

Sam looks down, grinning a little. They’re dangerous, those words, and they’re obsessive and a little insane and should be scary, would be scary to anyone else besides them. For Sam and Dean, they’re the biggest declaration love and devotion they know how to give each other. 

“‘Cept maybe you,” Dean says suddenly, like he’s just thought of it, a curious thing, a wondering notion.

Sam huffs. “Dean, I-- I get that it was dumb, goin’ down there, but you don’t have to rub it in,” Sam mumbles, tucking his hair behind his ears. “It, it wasn’t me tryin’ to, to leave you--”

“Not what I meant,” Dean interjects, thick finger reaching out to trail over the back of Sam’s hand, raising goosebumps all down his arm. It makes Sam shiver, makes him want to grab at Dean’s hand and push his cock into it, rub it all over those calluses that create the most beautiful friction Sam’s ever felt. 

He looks up at his brother, cocking his head, confused.

“You took you from me,” Dean qualifies gruffly, while the maddening light touch of the tip of his finger makes Sam start leaking in his pants, and he barely holds back the need to start panting. “And I get it, Sam, I do. i deserved it, didn’t I, to not have the, the most beautiful-- not have him in my arms, in my bed, but I-- you won’t give you back to me.”

Sam leans forward, grasping Dean’s finger between two long ones of his own. He can feel his stomach clenching, dick twitching in his pants with the throb of his heartbeat. Yeah, Sam took himself away from this, from Dean, but he didn’t realize Dean was waiting on him to give himself back. Sam thought Dean hadn’t wanted, had, not moved on, but moved past. 

It’s just like Dean, isn’t it, to surprise Sam with maddening thoughtfulness. Sam’s been waiting on Dean to just take like he always has, but Dean’d heard him loud and clear, finally realizing Sam was of his own mind and body, and should be given the choice of letting Dean back in. Of giving himself back to Dean.

Sam stands suddenly, and Dean does too, slowly, his gaze heavy. Sam walks unsteadily out of the library, the alcohol and nerves and anticipation making his colt-legs wobbly. He hears Dean’s heavy footsteps behind him, but they’re slow, and he can feel his brother’s eyes on the sway of his ass.

Sam makes it into Dean’s room, and as soon as Dean follows through the threshold, he’s on him.

Dean pushes Sam up against the ajar door, slamming it closed with the force of their heavy bodies. He smashes their mouths together, eating at Sam’s lips, moaning deep in his chest. 

“Sam, Sammy,” he gasps into Sam’s open, panting mouth, his tongue sweeping against Sam’s lips, tasting him for the first time in two years. “God, god baby, Sammy,” and he melts them back together, rolling his hips against Sam’s, pinning him there with the momentum. 

Dean’s cock is rock hard against Sam’s hip, and he’s so wasted, so wasted on how Dean tastes, feels, just like he did the first time Sam kissed him when he was sixteen, pinning him to the couch so Dean couldn’t run away anymore, and it had ended with Sam in Dean’s lap, their mouths panting heavy, stale breath between each other’s faces, his big brother’s cock buried deep in Sam’s guts. Sam can still feel it, feel the way Dean tears him up every single time, and he wants it again, wants it back, wants it now.

“Fuck me,” Sam demands, gripping Dean’s hips, then moving his hands around to his back, groaning as shoves his hands down Dean’s pants, massaging at his big brother’s firm, beautiful ass. He runs a long finger in the cleft, teasing over the hole that clenches and relaxes at Sam’s touch. 

Dean doesn’t bottom much, but he loves when Sam plays with him down there. He’s so fucking sensitive, loves being eaten out almost as much as he loves getting his cock sucked, and there’s hardly anything more beautiful in this world than Dean Winchester with his knees at his ears, big, rough hands holding onto the back of his thighs, close to crying with the teasing little kitten licks and rough, penetrating stabs of Sam’s tongue.

Sam decides he wants that first, more than anything, and he pushes at Dean, stronger when his brother’s attention is consumed with eating at his mouth and rubbing his big dick all over Sam’s through their jeans. Dean stumbles back, beautiful swollen lips still pouted mid-kiss, and Sam doesn’t waste a second, shoving him again and again until Dean is flat on his back on his, or maybe after tonight, their bed.

“You, you gonna ride my dick?” Dean pants out, sitting up a little to whip his shirt off over his head, then starts on his jeans and shorts, sliding them off at the same time.

Sam kneels in front of him, nearly tearing the collar of his t-shirt as he gets it off. He grips the inside of Dean’s thighs and pulls until Dean’s balls are at Sam’s nose, and he nudges at them with the point, breathing hotly against Dean’s asshole. It clenches, and Sam swears he starts drooling, thinking about getting his tongue up in there. 

“Oh, Sam, oh fuck,” Dean whines, canting his hips towards Sam’s mouth, “gonna, gonna lick me out?”

Sam hums, pushing Dean’s thighs back until his ass is level with Sam’s face, running his stubbled cheeks over Dean’s high, tight balls. He brings his tongue out and licks lightly at his hole, barely a touch, and Dean sobs, grabbing at the inside of his own thighs so tightly his knuckles are white. Sam does it again and again, until Dean is close to tears, giving him quick little licks, barely tasting him, a flicker of pleasure, driving him wild. Dean’s dick is purple, and it beats like a heart every time Sam’s tongue darts out, connected to his belly with a string of precome that drools from the tip.

“So fuckin’ pretty,” Sam murmurs, spreading his big brother’s ass to look at his hole, the pinkness of it, the way it pouts and clenches in anticipation. “Tell me what you want, Dean,” he orders, using his thumbnail to catch at the rim, bringing both thumbs to pull his brother’s hole apart, gently, gently.

“Fuckin’,” Dean stutters, adjusting his grip on his thighs, head tilted so far back into the pillow Sam can hardly see his face, the skin of his throat stretched so tightly he can count the heartbeats in Dean’s throat. “Fuckin’ eat my ass, Sammy. Be, be my good boy.”

Sam groans, lunging forward, pulling Dean the rest of the way until his mouth is smashed right between Dean’s cheeks, his tongue pointed and carved into his brother’s hole. Dean cries out, his cock jumping like a rifle’s ricochet, and no one in this universe, no one who has ever lived is more beautiful than his big brother right now, flat on his back, getting eaten out like a girl.

Sam gets comfortable, spreading his thighs wide in his kneel, rolling his hips to let his cock rub against his jeans. He’s surprised he hasn’t popped the button and zipper with how hard is dick is trying to break free, but he loves this, loves to torture himself, knows if he holds out like this Dean can make him come with just his cock nailing Sam’s prostate, and it’s the best kind of orgasm, nothing like one involving his dick.

The orgasm he wants feels like his whole body is involved, his mind, his heart, his soul, everything contracting and releasing, bleeding into Dean just a little bit more, just a little bit closer to making them one entity again, not these two souls split apart at birth and forced to wander around Earth for their lifetime, always brushing close but never close enough. 

“Taste so good,” Sam murmurs, letting his lips catch against the puffy rim of Dean’s asshole, setting his teeth against it, scraping the sensitive nerves. Dean has gone silent, mouth open, jaw-locked and working against nothing, eyes clenched closed so tight Sam just knows he’s making Dean create new lines there, in the corners, where tears are leaking down his temples and into the smattering of grey hair. 

“Such a good little ass-eater,” Dean tells him tightly, rolling his hips, and Sam rewards him by spitting messily against his hole, then tonguing against him softly, rolling it against the bright red opening that is shivering, quaking against Sam’s hard work.

Dean’s feet are suddenly against Sam’s shoulders, and he’s being forced back. Dean gets to his knees shakily, face bright-red and eyes shining, and he grabs Sam by the hair and forces his head back with a strong tug that has Sam whining, and Dean dives for Sam’s mouth tongue first, demanding the taste of his own ass back from Sam’s mouth.

“Gonna pound you into the mattress,” Dean promises, wrenching his mouth back with a heavy pop, and Sam chases after it, forcing Dean back onto the bed. Sam stands, dropping his pants and briefs, and his dick slaps wetly against his belly button, huge and purple and weeping with neglect. 

Sam crawls over his brother, cock swaying, and Dean’s staring up at him like he’s some kind of god, some kind of otherworldly being, chewing on his own lips like he’s not even sure where to begin with how he’s gonna take him apart. 

“Missed you, Dean,” he whispers, dipping for a quick taste of his brother’s mouth, and Sam watches his eyes change, lighten and darken at the same time, the way he smiles at Sam, soft and private and so crazy-obsessed in love with him that Sam doesn’t know how he went without that look for two entire years. “Missed you,” he says again, close to tears now, thinking of how much healing, how much good they denied themselves, how much time they wasted. 

Dean fits his hands around Sam’s hips, rubbing his cock against the cleft of Sam’s ass. Sam’s eyes flutter closed, and he gets up on his knees to spread his ass cheeks, to let Dean’s dripping cock catch against his asshole. 

“Sammy,” Dean breathes, and it’s I missed you too and I love you and I’ll never stop and I’ll never leave, not ever. Every piece of Sam’s world can be summed up in his own name, and he thinks of how special that is, how maybe no one else in the world can hear a million different things in someone saying their name, and how no one has ever said his name like Dean does. 

Dean flips them, molding his body against Sam’s, pinning his right then left wrists beside his ears and kisses him, licks his way into Sam’s mouth, and Sam opens wide, lets him, lets him taste everything until their spit and breath smells like the other’s. Dean moves down Sam’s neck, tracing his tongue against Sam’s heartbeat, sucking a bruise there while rutting his cock against Sam’s, driving them wild even though it’s not enough, not ever enough. 

“Can I,” Dean murmurs against Sam’s lips, then backs away a bit, bringing Sam’s right hand up to his mouth and kissing all over his fingers, tonguing his love line, like every bit of Sam tastes so good to Dean and he has to try it all, “will you, will you open yourself up for me? And let me, can I watch?” Dean is panting, like the very thought is making him crazy, wild. 

Sam is shy about this, shy about how much he gets into it, the feel of his own fingers up his ass and Dean’s eyes on him, but he wants that tonight. Wants Dean to stare at him, make him feel his gaze like a touch, wants to drive Dean insane with the way he flicks at his own prostate until tears pour down his face. 

“Let you do anything,” Sam promises, and Dean already knows, because he’s leaning forward for the lube out of his nightstand drawer before Sam’s even done answering. He pops the cap, and Sam holds out his hand, but Dean just kisses it again, rubbing his lips all over Sam’s palm, tickling him, nipping at his knuckles. 

Finally, he pours a fairly large puddle into Sam’s palm, always erring on the side of too much lube rather than not enough, and it’s been a while. He drizzles more down the crack of Sam’s ass, then hikes Sam’s hips up with his hands under Sam’s butt until he’s almost perpendicular to the bed, and he can feel Dean’s breath against his balls. 

Dean kisses at his asshole a couple times, making out with it like he would Sam’s mouth, tongue and teeth and soft, soft lips, holding Sam’s squirming hips with his strong forearm barred against Sam’s stomach, Sam’s lower back flat to Dean’s chest, his legs thrown over Dean’s shoulders. He keeps at it until Sam wants to tell him to fuck prep, just open him on his cock, but after a long suck against his hole that makes Sam’s eyes cross, Dean lets him down to the bed gently.

Sam has to breathe for a couple seconds to get his bearings back, or he knows he’ll come with the first scrape of his fingers against his prostate. Dean scoots back on his knees to watch.

“Don’t play too long,” Dean tells him, fisting his own cock, rubbing the head into his palm, spitting a long line directly onto his shaft, landing right on the the thick vein. “Gotta be in there, beautiful boy.”

Dean’s lips are shiny with the lube he sucked off Sam’s hole, and Sam watches them glimmer in the dim light as he trails his hands down his body. He tugs on his nipples sharply, pulling them into points, twisting them, making himself whine. He flicks at them harshly, and Dean can’t seem to stop himself from leaning forward, sucking one into his mouth and holding it between his teeth, gnawing gently. 

“Fuck, oh fuck,” Sam groans, arching his chest towards Dean’s mouth. “Suck on it, Dean. Please.”

Dean moves to the other slowly, trailing his lips through the damp, sweaty hair Sam didn’t have the first time they did this. “Keep movin’ those fingers south,” he orders, and Sam does, pausing to briefly run a palm up his cock, and it makes his spine melt into the bed.

Dean sucks his nipple into his hot, wet mouth, nursing at it like a babe, the sound sharp and filthy. Sam is panting with it, and Dean draws back, knowing Sam’s too distracted to get on with it. Dean lifts Sam’s leg, pressing his thigh back against his chest so Sam is spread wide open, both for easier access and a better visual.

“Baby, baby, please,” Dean begs, and shuts up as soon as Sam starts running his long fingers through the slick down his ass crack.

Sam dives right in with two slender fingers; it’s been a while, yeah, but he’s no virgin, knows what he can take, and he’s desperate to be filled up. He sobs, throwing his head back into the pillow as his fingers sink inside himself-- he’s so hot inside, and his muscles clench down on his fingers, offering resistance. He takes a breath, relaxing his body, letting his fingers push deeper, feeling at his walls, missing his prostate just barely every time, on purpose, to torture himself.

He opens his eyes to watch Dean watch him. Dean’s got a hold of his own cock, jacking it slowly, his eyes fixed where Sam’s fucking himself open, stretching himself out for his big brother. Sam licks his dry mouth, spreading his fingers out inside himself, and he whispers Dean’s name.

Dean’s eyes slam shut, and he makes a tight ring at the base of his cock to prevent the come that wants to shoot out. “Hurry up, Sam. God, baby, hurry up.”

Sam pulls his fingers out, rubbing at his asshole like a clit, tickling the sweet nerves there. He’s barely played with himself down here since they stopped this-- it feels good, yes, and he loves it, but he’s always seen this area as Dean’s, something he allows Dean to own, and it doesn’t feel nearly as nice without him participating. 

He sinks three fingers back inside, and the burning stretch makes him groan. He’s a sick, sick man, but the pain is making him even harder, and there’s a puddle of precome dripping in his belly button.

“Hurts,” Sam moans, planting his feet back on the bed and fucking himself onto his fingers, spreading them out with every push inside. 

Dean seems to think that’s exactly enough, knee-walking up between Sam’s spread thighs. Sam fucks himself with his fingers harder, sobbing and panting, jabbing them inside roughly as Dean’s spreads the lube in a thick coat down his cock, never tearing his eyes away from where Sam’s fingers are disappearing.

On the last push in, Sam hooks his middle finger to rub firmly at his prostate, and it feels so good he can’t stop, keeps rubbing and rubbing until he’s there, almost at the breaking point. Dean knocks his hand away and sinks inside in one slow push, and Sam’s back arches off the bed as Dean’s cockhead nails his prostate dead on, bullseye, and he comes so hard tears form in his eyes, trickling down his cheeks, sobbing Dean’s name, pushing at Dean’s ass with his feet to get him to fuck him through it.

“Oh, oh fuck, Sam, Sammy,” Dean pants, feeling Sam jerk and clench around his cock. He drops his hips to pack it in deep, and Sam can’t, won’t stop crying because he hasn’t come like that in years, in fucking years, and Dean is all around him, settling on his forearms, wrapping his hands behind Sam’s head and into his hair as an anchor to keep Sam still against the force of his pounding hips. It tugs on Sam’s hair, it hurts, but he loves it, loves Dean, loves him so much he doesn’t know what to do with it all, so it leaks out of him slowly in tears and come.

“I’m not, I can’t,” Dean pants, grinding his knees into the bed to firmly plant himself, so he can really give it to Sam, give it to him so hard the headboard is banging against the stone wall. “Not gonna, I’m gonna--”

“Come, come on,” Sam moans, attaching his mouth to his big brother’s, sucking hungrily at his puffy bottom lip, his tongue, knowing it’s okay to leak these little bits of love, because Dean is gonna give it back to him with his own tears, his own come. “Fill me up, Dean. Want it, want you to so bad.”

Dean moans against Sam’s mouth, licking into it roughly, closing his eyes tightly. 

“I came on just your cock,” Sam whispers to him, into his mouth, letting Dean taste his breath. “Nothin’ but your cock, bare inside me, no one has ever made me do that but you. Love you, Dean, god, love you so much, you saved me, you always save me, missed you, don’t leave me again, don’t leave me alone--”

Dean’s thrusts have remained a steady pound through all of it, but at Sam’s words they pick up and become erratic, like the sputtering of an old engine just before it stops with a sigh. “Never, never leave you alone, love you, I love you, Sam, Sammy, I’m yours-- did you, did you know that, that I’m yours, I-- fuck! Sam, oh, fuck--”

Dean comes with a last jerk of his hips, pressing inside Sam hard, then humps at him savagely to jerk the last spurts of his come out with the friction Sam is giving him, clenching his asshole up tight in the way Dean loves, the way that makes him so spent, so sensitive. Sam clings to Dean’s back, digs his fingernails into his brother’s sweaty shoulder blades, letting Dean ride it out.

His big brother collapses on top of him, and Sam oofs with the weight. But it’s welcome, so welcome, every sweaty, dirty, bloody, gorgeous pound of him, and before Dean can catch his breath Sam kisses him, obsessed with his mouth, obsessed with his breathing patterns and heartbeat, how Sam knows it so well, how it’s his, everything Dean has to give the world is owned by Sam, and he’s always known that. 

“I’m yours, too,” Sam tells his brother when they finally break for oxygen, a second-rate element to the taste of each other. “Always been, Dean. In California, in my dreams, in Hell, and right here. Always.”

Dean smiles, eyes still closed, like he’s in a dream he refuses to wake up from. He blindly searches for another kiss, and Sam gives him one, their mouths tender and bruised by now, but it’s such a good hurt, one he wants every single day.

“You know that, don’t you?” Sam presses when Dean doesn’t respond, only rolls to his back and pulls Sam close. Sam rests his head on Dean’s chest, kissing at his nipple, mouthing along his collarbone and jaw. He presses his lips all the way up the beautiful, sweaty column of his brother’s throat to land a kiss against his lips, soft, gentle. “Dean?”

“I do right now,” Dean murmurs finally, dragging a hand through Sam’s sweaty hair, tugging at the knots until they release. “I probably will in the morning. But you know how I am, Sammy. I forget. Gonna, I’m gonna need you to remind me, sweet boy.”

Sam smiles, loving all the terms of endearment he hasn't heard in way too long, loving the way they seal up the bleeding, hurt parts inside. He knows his brother isn’t being cute, isn’t talking about sex-- or isn’t just talking about sex, at least. 

His last thought before dropping off to sleep is if his biggest mission in life is to remind his brother that he is loved, needed by Sam, he’s pretty damned okay with how his life has turned out.

**Author's Note:**

> You all mean the world to me, and so do your responses. They keep me writing. I hope you enjoyed this.


End file.
